Carrion Dawn

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It was quiet after Foka dropped off, but that was fine with Mal. It'd been a while since she had a moment to herself. It was hard to believe only three days had passed since she'd been arrested. Even so, the Mars authorities had been a long time catching up with a girl who'd been practicing illegal prostitution and a fair dollop of treason for almost three years now. She wasn't looking forward to going back, exactly, but hiding had always been her speciality. And she was a good liar. A great liar, even.

Good enough she could probably get a few secrets out of Foka. Sexuality hadn't worked the first time around, but now she knew a little more about him. She didn't expect to find anything usable, or nothing sellable, at least. But any secret was a good secret when you knew who you were talking to. And Foka...well, he scared her just enough to mean something big to the right person.
 
It was strange how the concept of pain could travel over into a dream. Foka's dream took several minutes to unfold. It was one where time passed much slower, and to a person on the outside, the events going on in his mind would have been in slow motion. But, Father Russia wouldn't have been able to bear these particular events in slow motion. The fact that it would be over soon, it had been a light.

Light came through into the closet as the door was opened. It was so bright, he had to squint to see the large, wrinkled hand coming down on him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. "Come here, you little devil," someone growled. It was familiar, and it brought a sense of fear up from the depths of Foka's belly. He had been a small fourteen year old. Short, scrawny. It was no surprise how the elderly man pulled him off the floor and out into the open so easily.

A frown fell over Foka's features as he slept. It had been almost a half an hour after he had fallen asleep, but being tired as he was had sent him almost straight into a state of REM. The dream was sour.

It was useless to struggle against the older man. Foka knew better. So, the young man was dragged down the hall by a handful of his hair, which at the time had been shoulder-length and actually rather well taken care of. He had let go of that aspect of hygiene sometime after this particular memory.

Foka's head fell to the side slightly, his face to the wall of the ship. A calloused hand gripped at his tank top and he grunted. "Ahtyets," he mumbled. "pozhaluysta ne." It was a plead.

There were no tears from either man, but on the other side of the door, he could hear a woman sobbing. A hard, leather cover struck him across his left cheek so hard that Foka stumbled. He clutched at the red welt on the side of his face as he looked up at the older man. A bottle of communion wine was lifted from the bed stand, and the neck was brought to the old mans lips. He was cold, cruel. Piercing brown eyes glared back down at the young Russian with nothing but contempt as the bottle was set back down. "You demon," he murmured, flipping open the leather-bound book.

It was hard to understand why the man hated him so. He was no worse than the other boys in school, and yet he was constantly scolded, beaten, exercised. Why was there so much disapproval of the mans only son?

His breathing sped up slightly, his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. To anyone else, it was simply a nightmare.
 
It was quiet enough she was immediately aware when his nightmare started.

The quiet had always made Mal tense. Noise and chaos, she could deal with. She had to, in her career. It was the quiet, intimate times that got under her skin. Quiet always meant surprises. Horror movie jump scares and screaming in the night. So when he first twitched, then mumbled in his sleep, she jumped slightly, having forgotten he was even there in the short flight. It had been nice to have a few moments to herself, but in a space this size, with a space that side on the other side of a few welded pieces of metal? Well, Mal got cagey quick.

"Shit," she muttered as her heart rate slowed again. She'd been daydreaming, and was only just now remembering where she was, and who she was with, and why. Stretching, she turned to look back at him. It didn't take her long to find a nightmare. She knew those well. Too well.

A part of her instantly felt some pity for the strange man. Tired as he must have been, waking himself up didn't seem like much of an option, so without her, he was trapped, lost in a world of pain and bad memories on a loop, the worst kind of rosary you could find.

But the rest of her was annoyed. If he couldn't keep his shit together, he sure as hell couldn't expect her to. She didn't even know him, let alone like him, and whatever favor he'd done in keeping her from bleeding out, she'd repaid twice over at least, buying him time to escape first from the prison, then from the junkyard.

Besides, she knew exactly how she'd react if he ever woke her from a nightmare, and he was a lot bigger than she was. If he clubbed her, they'd both be screwed. And she'd be pissed. Which was ultimately worse for both of them.

So, best to let him wait it out. It was a shitty time. There was a war on. Everyone had nightmares, and everyone was alone.

Or that's what she told herself. Until she heard him start to panic, even quietly, even asleep. And then it was just like she was back on the asteroid, reluctantly seeing herself in some skinny teenager trying to be tough.

Except Foka wasn't any of those things, and she didn't want to help him, certainly not at the risk of personal harm.

But she did anyway, pushing away angrily from the console to stomp over to his side.

And then the anger and reluctance melted away. It was strange looking down at such a big man and still seeing a child.

She knelt beside him awkwardly, certain she was going to regret this later. Or now.

"Hey," she said, none too gently, but not unkindly, either. "Hey. Dude. Russia. Wake up." She laid a hand cautiously on his shoulder, ready to back away if he started swinging. "It's just a dream. Wake up."
 
Horrid imagery followed as the old man read from scripture. In his mind, Foka saw the shadows turn long, felt his fingers change, end in tips. "You demon." The words left their mark in an easily influenced, young mind. He saw the floor covered in red wine, saw his reflection as the devil. Black eyes looked back at him. It wasn't a memory any more, but the Russian boy was too consumed to realize such facts. Clawed hands reach up from the wet floor, one grabbed him by the ankle. Red wine poured from the ceiling, dripped through cracks, drenched his brown hair. He tried to back away, but the grip around his leg tightened, dragged him forward. "Drink from the blood of Christ!" The older man shouted, and Foka felt the wine on his lips and tasted copper. Panic rose in the pit of his stomach, and he tried to spit the flavor out. It wasn't wine anymore. What was on the floor thickened, his lower half was submerged in it. He couldn't stand, he was bound.

"Mama!" He cried, reaching for the closed door. She responded, the wooden door opening. A small prick of hope stung at him, a relieved smile started to spread over his dark lips. And then it was gone when he saw her peek around the corner. Her eyes were as black as in his reflection. No, she had no eyes. Blood poured from empty sockets, and the panic returned. There was no salvation for Father Russia.

Foka woke with a start, blue eyes snapping open as he shot up. It took him a moment to realize where he was, to notice that there was no more blood around his feet. He wiped his eyes harshly with the back of his hand. He felt for tears, and was relieved to find that there were none. A cold-hearted killer crying from a nightmare, it was complete bullshit.

He turned to regard Mal. She had gotten up to come to his side. A frown came back to his lips, as he looked her over. "Vhat?" He asked, pretending that nothing had happened. It was hopeless, but he would be damned if he would give up such information willingly.
 
Mal lurched away so quickly when Foka finally woke, she ended up her ass staring up at him. Which was probably for the best. No one whoever got woken from a nightmare ever wanted to look up at a stranger.

For a moment, she just stared at him, hardly aware that he'd even spoken. Even Mal wasn't sure what she was actually thinking, and she doubted it was written any more clearly on her face. She reached up after a moment, realizing her own heart was thudding in her chest for whatever reason, and pushed long, dark locks out of green eyes.

She shrugged and hauled herself to her feet, returning to the cockpit without so much as a backwards glance.

"Nothing," she said. "I was looking for something to eat. Thought you still had the bag." She didn't really know or care whether he did. She wasn't hungry. She wasn't tired. She was just sick to death of being trapped with this dude she barely knew.

And she wasn't stupid. Foka might not have been crying, but you didn't just wipe at your eyes for no reason.
 
Lies could sometimes be something that were needed, as relief or something else. Foka realized her lie, as he was sure that she had realized his own facade. His heart rattled in his chest, still feeling the anxiety and fear the nightmare had caused him, if only the remnants.

Foka watched the back of Mal's head as she sat in the pilots seat, listening the his pulse drum in his ears, the beat fading until he was calm once again. There was no going back to sleep, however. Not after such a nightmare. Not when such a dreams as based on that kind of reality. Father Russia had purposefully forgotten that memory.

"Vhen vill ve reach this place of yours?" He asked, swinging his legs off the bench, his boots pressed flat against the floor.
 
Mal shrugged without turning around, though she felt the tension that had risen from nowhere drop from her shoulders as she heard Foka rise, speaking more calmly than he had the first time.

"Dunno. Couple hours, you were only out, what, thirty minutes? Why, you gotta pee?"

She didn't have much of a plan prior to arriving there. She'd left the autopilot on, but she didn't need it, and without the distraction of flying, she knew she'd be bored and anxious. Besides, planning here and now meant she ran the risk of Foka following her. Not that he would, with his own ship and his own shit to deal with. But she much preferred the idea of severing ties cleanly and completely, and that meant no weird, foreign, metal-studded loose ends.

When he didn't answer right away, she turned and glanced over the back of the seat. He was still sitting on the long, flat bench, but at least he was up now. Good. He'd be tired as hell, but better that than more weird nightmare interventions.

"You got a better idea, Father Russia?"
 
Foka raised his head to look at her, but remained quiet for several long, drawn out seconds. He brought his hands together, his elbows on his knees and his fingers intertwined, and he twiddled his thumbs every now and then as he thought. Not necessarily about what to do.

"No," he finally shrugged, standing up from the bench and pulling his tangled hair back from his face. He returned to the cockpit and took the bag of food, casually rummaging through the supplies. What was there to work with anyways? Father Russia pulled out a compact cube of rations, and peeled off the foil wrapping. He sat back in the co-pilots seat and bit off a corner of the rough cube, rolling the dried ingredients in his mouth. It wasn't too bad, but, being as experienced in the culinary arts as he was, Foka had most certainly tasted better.
 
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Mal nodded, equal parts annoyed and smug victorious. She liked being right...but not being able to improvise wasn't the most helpful of situations, either.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as he lumbered over to the co-pilot's seat, sat down, and began to rummage through the bag. She tensed momentarily, wondering if he was going to pull the pistol she'd given him, remembering she'd given hers to the tiny stowaway back at the junk yard. But when he only pulled out a freeze-dried cube of 'Genetically Enhanced Protein Supplement' -- GEPS as it was printed in big, corporate-y letters on the side, she relaxed and ran a hand over her stomach, flinching a little.

Right. Food. She supposed she could eat. She wasn't all that hungry, but she hadn't been hungry that morning, either, and eventually, skipping out on meals was going to cost her, especially if they spent the next several hours on the run.

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him more fully now, about to ask whether he planned on nibbling away at their entire store when they had no idea, or at least no clear idea, when they'd land -- when the computer alert system beeper, flashing red and yellow lights across the console.

"Warning, O2 levels dropping. Warning."

Mal blinked once, then rolled her eyes and smirked. Of. Fucking. Course.

"Well, shit."
 
"Vhat is that?" Foka asked, sitting forward to look over the console. He saw the warning about the oxygen levels, but felt somewhat confused as to why they were running low on air. Did this vessel not have life support? Weren't military vessels supposed to have life support? Father Russia was pretty sure that things like this weren't quite supposed to happen.

He pulled the foil covering back over the ration he had been working on, placing it back in the bag before he turned to Mal. "You know more about this model than I," he said. "Vhat is going on?"
 
Mal wasn't nervous, quite. There were a handful of things she could try before it was time to panic. But none of them were ideal, and all of them would cost them valuable fleeing-the-space-army time, and worse still, she had a sneaking suspicion their oxygen supply hadn't just magically sprung a leak.

Figures. She wouldn't have trusted herself at sixteen. Why give Sylvia a pass?

"What the fuck do you think?" she snapped, still leaning over the console, trying to isolate the physical location of their leak, likely somewhere in the cargo bay, where neither of them had set foot yet.

When she turned to find Foka still staring blankly at her, she huffed and pointed at the flashing readout from the message panel at the top of the console.

"War-ning," she barked out slowly. "Ox-y-gen lev-els drop-ping. War-ning. I can't make it any plainer for you, so unless you're going to help, get out of the way." She grunted a ran a hand through tousled black hair, massaging the bridge of her nose as she tried to think.

"No, wait. Come take the controls for a second. I'm gonna go check out the cargo back and the loading dock." She pointed, then said in a voice as mocking and condescending as she could manage, "If. The. Flashing. Light -- you know light? Like what comes from the big yellow thing in the sky? If this one turns red, come find me." She paused. "And start praying."
 
Foka held his hands up in a non-threatening manner of, 'I surrender' as he took her mocking, watching as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. He waited for a moment, putting his hands down. But, wait. She was leaving him in charge? Really? After how she was mocking his intelligence? Foka rolled his eyes as she explained what she wanted of him. Why couldn't they be on a planet? If he didn't need her at the moment, Father Russia could almost do some rather unsavory things to her just then. He kept the thought from showing on his face as he watched her get up, sliding himself into her vacant seat.

"Fuck you," he growled under his breath, turning to face the console, waiting to hear Mal's footsteps leading away.
 
Their ship wasn't very long, but she was a big girl, with a girth you usually only saw in commercial freighters. Mal was now kicking herself for not having looked over the ship sooner. It had been a hectic escape, with the kid rolling over on them, and Foka waking from weird ass nightmares. But she knew better than to let her guard down. Hell, even trusting him at the helm made her teeth itch, but she couldn't go back now.

Instead, armed with a heavy flashlight from the cockpit's emergency rations, she flew down the ladder leading from the bridge to the belly of the cargo bay. It was dark down there, with a pungent odor of dust and mildew that said the place -- the entire ship, probably -- hadn't been used in a while. Why would such an old ship be kept in running condition? Unless Sylvia had singled this one out for routine care --

A sudden sound to her right had Mal's every nerve on edge and she clicked on the light to prowl the darkness for --

"Coo, your a righ' pretty one, ain'tcha, poppet?"

Mal swung the flashlight in both hands like a bat, making a wild leap for the latter, cursing herself again for having left Foka with the pistol.

To her credit, she made it halfway up before she felt a hand close around her ankle. She looked back to see one of three men after her, his nose spewing blood like a broken tap.

She kicked out at him again. He caught her other ankle and pulled, hard.

She felt the stitches in her belly rip open. The pain made her curl in reflexively, and then she was floating. One of the ladder rungs caught her in the chin. She tasted iron for half a second, and then there was nothing but darkness.
 
Foka waited. And waited. And waited just a moment longer. No lights were going off, and Mal still hadn't returned. There were no more warnings about the oxygen levels, so he leaned forward to make sure that the auto-pilot was engaged before he left the console.

Taking up the pistol, he strode to the back of the cockpit, making his way towards the cargo bay. Something big was off, that much was blatantly obvious. "Mal?" He called quietly, taking into account some of her worries before she had left him to man the console. He reached the ladder that led to the lower deck, standing over it for a moment, silent, listening. There was definitely something going on down there. Foka looked around for a moment, trying to find a better way down. There was none.

A figure stepped out from behind a large container, a fourth member of the mercenaries. The information had said that there were two, and this character just so happened to be more prepared than Father Russia. Foka was jumped from behind, a thick arm wrapping around his neck. Bang! A shot was fired, the projectile sinking into the assailants right thigh. There was more commotion, a scream coming from the man with the injured leg, followed by grunts of the two of them wrestling. Foka ended up loosing the gun, being pushed down the short shaft to hit the old floor on his back after a summer salut through the air. Nothing broke, but his ribs bruised from a kick to the side he received from his first assailant, after the man had climbed down, a serious limp evident in the way he moved. A second kick was attempted, but Foka caught the man by the ankle, pulling him to the ground with a good tug to ruin his grip on the ladder which had held him up the first time.

Foka didn't even notice Mal for the first several seconds of the attack. Two of the five men were on the floor, and a third man reached down to grab Foka by his shirt, beating him in the face with his free fist. There was flailing, the man with the injured leg rolling away to scramble to his feet. Somewhere, Father Russia had managed to stop the attack on his head, and he sank his teeth into his newest assailants forearm. He refused to let go, gnawing his way down to the mans bones.

"Get the fucker off! Get him off, goddamn it!" He screamed as Father Russia practically went feral, barely noticing the few other kicks that bruised his sides even more. It was almost over, though. His vision was starting to fade, and he could feel his own grip starting to weaken. That's roughly when he noticed Mal, on the floor, unconscious.

The second man managed to pull his arm away, thick blood running down and dripping from his fingertips. He stumbled back slightly, but stepped forward to kick at Foka one last time, putting his lights out for a good while.
 
She couldn't tell right away whether or not she was awake, except she fucking hurt.

Her hands went automatically to the stabbing pain in her belly, and she hissed reflexively as her fingers found an open wound, sticky with cold, clotted blood. The prison, she remembered suddenly. She'd stabbed herself in the escape. Is that where she was now? The prison hospital? Her plan had failed, and now she was bleeding on the doctor's table like some idiot martyr?

But...no. No, as her other senses swam back, she recalled more. She blinked her eyes and swallowed against the nausea. It didn't help that she couldn't see anything, or at least not right away. There was a cold, solid surface under her back, cement, or maybe metal, it was hard to tell. She felt fuzzy, confused. Her breathing sounded close enough she could guess she was in a small room, no windows, no light.

Mal groaned and brought her hands next to her chin, hissing again. The pain wasn't so bright there, but she could feel slick blood running down her neck and into her t-shirt from the small gash under her chin.

That was when she remembered the rest -- they'd been running, ever since they'd left the prison. She and the big Russian. Foka. He'd taken them to some ship yard, and the ship had malfunctioned, or had been rigged from the start. She knew they'd been caught, or at least she had. What she didn't know was by whom.

She sat up slowly, wincing at the pain in her belly as she fought off another urge to puke.

Well, first thing's first. Mal hadn't spent the last four years of her life learning how to crawl around in the dark for nothing. She rolled over to her hands and knees, slowly acclimating to the pain and dizziness, slowly putting hand over hand in an effort to find a seam between the floor and a door or window. A light switch. A fucking cardboard box, anything to help place where she was.

She found a body first. She'd moved no more than a few feet to her right before her hand came down none too gently on a person. Alive, she could tell, from the warmth and the labored breathing. She recoiled on instinct, but not before she felt hot, swollen bruises under her fingers. Ribcage, maybe? A torso, at least.

And there was no indication to say it was Father Russia, but somehow, she knew it was.

She inched carefully away, then proceeded to hiss out in a whisper. "Hey! Wake up! We -- "

She was instantly blinded as a flood of blue-white lights flashed on overhead. A disembodied voice said, "And now the fun begins."
 
The figure on the floor next to her let out a grunt as her hand came down on his bruised and battered ribs. Now that he had been made suddenly aware of the pain, everything hurt. His face most of all though. His left eye was swollen, which would make for a decent shiner, and there were cuts and scrapes about the rest of his face where he had taken a beating.

Foka hadn't opened his eyes, but he could tell the lights were suddenly turned on by the way the back of his eyelids seemed just a little less dark. Carefully, slowly, he opened his right eye, turning his head to see Mal and the others that had entered the room. There was the one man who's arm was bandaged with layer upon layer of cloth and gauze, and Father Russia couldn't help but grin to himself. He coughed and spat out a bloody tooth a moment later, the man with the injured arm scowling even more intensely.
 
Mal was still squinting in the too-bright lights when she felt a beefy hand latch itself to her upper arm and haul her to her feet. She knew better than to fight when she couldn't see, but she tensed, ready to run if she had to. Not that she had any idea of where she would go, or where she was, or who these people were. But judging by Foka's appearance and her own -- and there's, she could see as the spots began to fade from her vision, they were none of them on the same team here.

"'ello, love," cooed a voice close to her ear, and Mal winced. She could only see three of them, but with no real knowledge as to the situation, there was nothing to say there werent' more behind, or even just on the other side of whatever door they'd slithered in through. She recognized the voice of the man she'd assaulted with the flashlight in the cargo bay first and pulled away from him with a scowl.

He was more wiry than his voice would have him sound. A tall beanpole in his late thirties, maybe, one blue eye swollen shut from where she'd tried to cave in his skull. His greasy blonde hair obscured the worst of the bruising, and tar-stained teeth told her that stench riding his breath was tobacco or worse.

There were two more behind him, one with a bloodied bandage around his thigh, and the other with the same around his arm. She stared at them for a moment, under the guise of being dazed and afraid, before shooting a glance back at Foka, equal parts curious and reluctantly impressed.

"W-who are you?" Mal said, immediately falling back into Molly's role. Green eyes went wide below dark, unruly hair, promising innocence -- and some -- to anyone who could help. "I don't -- "

"Cut the shit," said an impatient man with a faint Southern drawl, the one with the bandaged thigh. "We know who you are. We know what you have. We know what you're worth."

Molly's face didn't change. She could bluff just as well as the rest of them. "I don't know what you're talking about! I'm just trying to get back home, please -- "

The man with the leg surprised her with his movement. He was beefier than the blonde man, but he was limping, and Mal was fast. Even so, somehow, he had her up against the wall of the small cell a second later, his face not two inches from hers. She heard the back of her head collide with stone and had to blink a few times to clear her vision. Her stomach hurt.

"I said cut the crap, or I won't be nearly so nice as those men you're always fucking for their secrets."

At that, Mal went still, and the man laughed. "See, Benny? Dirty bitches like these, you just gotta beat it outta them." He turned to the other man and jerked his head at Foka. "Get the Russian up off the floor. The prison is expecting them back before the end of the week. We have that long to find the Catalyst."
 
Dirty bitches and fucking for secrets. Mal's life suddenly sounded interesting, sounded like something he could use. The secrets, of course, being the most important. Then again, the way his head hurt, maybe it was okay to indulge in some ideas other than the polite. Maybe, just maybe he was tired of holding back. It had felt so good to sink his teeth into-

Foka was hauled up off the floor by the front of his white and now red tank top, by the very man who's blood was dried onto his lips and chin. And down either side of his neck. He glared up at the man with his good eye, still as ice cold as ever, despite his bad posture.

"Don't like the way this fucker's lookin' at me," the man grumbled, tugging Foka up a little more, causing him to stumble slightly. He's gonna' take my arm the rest of the way off...
 
The man called Benny scowled and spat over his shoulder.

"Don't much fuckin' care, then, do I? We was 'ired to find the Warden's escapee's and whatever it was these two stole from 'im. Now..."

The blonde crept around the larger man pinning Mal to the wall, making faces she was more than used to ignoring, to sneer at her. "Whatever this Catalyst is must be pre'y damn important if the man's got mercenaries and bounty 'unters crawling the system for it, roight? I figure we get it outta these louts first, get them back to the prison in three days, we got twice the ransom on our 'ands."

Mal said nothing, still trying to draw up an image in her head of what the hell was going on.

They'd been caught. That much was clear. But these three men were clearly not NUN officers or army recruits. Bounty hunters, maybe, or mercenaries like the man with the Cockney accent, Benny, had said. They'd have been hired by the Warden, apparently sent to track down her and Foka. But why would he send anyone but his own men, more prison guards and local authorities? Why would he let it out there'd been a break? He must have been desperate for something...something called the Catalyst, which these three idiots clearly thought the two of them had. The Warden must have thought so, too, or he would have never risked hiring illegals to hunt down two nameless escapees.

It seemed Mal's idea of going back to Mars would have to wait.

In the meantime...what exactly was the Catalyst? Where was it? And who was the 'Warden' to have connections to a galaxy full of professional killers?

Mal let herself float back to the conversation at hand. From the corner of her eye, she could see Foka similarly assaulted by a red-haired man with a bleeding arm. Idly, she wondered if he'd been shot. Did Foka still have the pistol? She still had the switchblade she'd lifted from the guard back at the prison, but she sure as hell wasn't about to let them know about it. Not now. She had yet to noticed the blood around his chin and mouth. His own shirt was soaked with red, too. It was starting to seem normal.

Any communication she might have made to Foka -- whether it be 'Follow my lead' or 'Every man for himself' -- though, was halted as Mal's captor, the still nameless man with the bloody leg, gripped her chin between two calloused fingers and turned her head to look at him. She glared back but didn't say a word.

"So, what'll it be, princess? You inter'stid in op'ning them pretty legs for an easier ride?" He laughed at his own joke. "Pun intended."
 
Foka kept his good eye on the man that held him by his shirt, stiff material almost crunching in his grip from the dried blood. He caught onto traces of a bigger, deeper plot, something more than either Mal or him had originally thought. Something was going on, something he just... Couldn't wrap his head around at the moment. He continued to watch the man that held him by his shirt, examining his face, the hint of nervousness creeping into his eyes. Then he caught on to the accented mans joke, about Mal riding him. He didn't understand the humor behind it, but he understood the reasoning behind it. Mal was pretty. Her alter ego was something that just begged to be taken advantage of. Father Russia couldn't care less about Molly, however. He didn't need whores.

"I said I don't like the way he's lookin' at me," the man with the mangled arm growled, pushing Foka around a bit, sticking the toe of his boot to his ribs when he hit the floor again. Foka ached, but he got up mostly on his own the second time, the feeling of greasy, dirty, oil-smelling fingers in his hair being entirely unwelcome. "If your gonna' be fucking the pretty one, do Benny and I get to interrogate this one?"
 
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